There is no question in my mind that our little house in Richmond is our home. But, at the same time, my parent's farm, where they have lived since before I was born, is also 'home' and always will be. I know this ground and love it. It is, in fact, my connection with my childhood home that makes me long so much to put down roots and understand the new place we call home.
There are few things in life that give me more joy than seeing my boys romping on the farm, learning to love my childhood home. Some highlights of the past week were the sight of fresh-from-the-tree peach juice pouring down my baby's chin; the short-stemmed flowers brought to me by my three year old; a lesson for wee boys on how to know when hay is dry; the taste of blackberries gifted to me by chubby little hands; the vain attempts of small boys to move hay bales on a real hayride (the kind where you are actually picking up and stacking bales); following a determined one-year-old around the farm as he explores at his own pace and in his own way; washing layers of dirt from wee boys each night...
oh yes, these boys will learn to love this place!
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